nothing, and there is an endless abundance of it, with no limits:
I try to get away: how it will end, I don’t know. Until now I
devoured, devoured, I loved life so fiercely: now I think nothing
good can come of it: why didn’t someone say— oh, girl, it isn’t
so easy as it seems, be gone when what’s inside comes out:
impotence and suicide aren’t the worst things. His face isn’t
sad now: he is flowering outside, to others, they have never
seen him fatter, cockier, no grief, no little boy: the human
husband, all hard fuck and fists: and I cower: reader, I married
him: I saved him: how it will end, I don’t know.
*
You can see what he needed, you can see what I did. It’s no
secret now, not me alone. I got inside it when it was still a
secret. It is everywhere now. Watch the men at the films. Sneak
in. Watch them. See how they learn to tie the knots from the
pictures in the magazines. Impotent and suicidal. I taught him
not to be afraid to hurt: me. What’s inside comes out. I love
life so fiercely, so desperately, and I devour, devour, and how
it will end, I don’t know. Sex is so easy, and it costs me nothing,
and there is an endless abundance of it, with no limits: and I
devour, devour. I saved him. How it will end, I don’t know.
There will be a film called
86
I love life so fiercely, so desperately, that
nothing good can come of it: I mean the
physical facts of life, the sun, the grass,
youth. It’s a much more terrible vice than
cocaine, it costs me nothing, and there is an
endless abundance of it, with no limits: and
I devour, devour. How it will end, I don’t know.
Pasolini
*
Sad, gentle face, comic. Unconsummated. My virgin. My little
boy. My innocent. Suicidal and impotent. I want you to know
what I know, being ground under: hard thighs: hard sweat:
hard cock: kisses to the marrow of the bone. I love life so
fiercely, so desperately. It costs me nothing, and there is an
endless abundance of it, with no limits, and I devour, devour. I
teach you. You get hard. You pulverize human bones. Finally I
know how it will end. Oh, I run, I run, little boy.
87
Coitus as punishment for the happiness of
being together.
Kafka
*
I lived another year in that Northern city of Old Europe. Terror
